Dulled Mundane

Normalcy is unconducive to poetry
I miss the days when I am without a bed
And tired from exhaustion
Or alcohol
Physical pain suits me well
Because I can trust when it's there
I am dulled by the mundane
And any vigor is sapped from me
In traffic, in life and in flight
I am best on a dried up lake bed
With nothing but beer and fungi in my belly
Or with a drink in hand at the far end of the bar
The lone walk or brisk bike ride where I'd barrel roll
Often causing little damage to myself
But the same cannot be said about the scene
Still the best were the days when the alcohol did the most damage
When I am bedstrickened for days on end
And get visited by angels of death
Words flowed then
And they held much sway
Genuine and heartfelt like that of touching bones
And the taste of acidic vomit on one's breath